Fortunes of the Dead (8 page)

I got up off the bed and opened the vinyl bi-fold door that hid the bedroom closet. The interior was interestingly neat, except the floor, which was a deep snarl of mismatched shoes, purses, a black shawl, several paperback novels involving government conspiracies, and an overturned hamper of dirty clothes. I sorted through the pile of clothes. Dirty socks, jog bra, yellow towels.

Hanging on pink and ivory padded hangers were just enough dresses, blouses, skirts, and slacks to make up, at most, four different outfits. The labels were illuminating. At the prices Cheryl must have paid, I was amazed she had that many.

I moved to the matching bamboo dresser that sat across from the bed. It was stuffed with sweats and jeans, and T-shirts rounded out the mix. It seemed strange that Miranda did not know what Cheryl wore the night she disappeared. There weren't so many possibilities in this closet. I saw no snapshots of Miranda, or Miranda's father, but I learned long ago that closeness did not necessarily measure depth of feeling.

I took a quick look under the bed. Dust and a basketball, scuffed and stained. I remembered the guys shooting hoops in the parking lot and wondered if they were still there.

I was on my way out when I decided to go back to the bedroom and take the photographs. I put them in my purse and locked the door behind me. The sound of a ball slamming against asphalt meant the players were still out on the court. Neither looked up as I clattered down the stairs, but I could tell they were very aware.

They looked like college students from middle-class or well-to-do families—their teeth were straight and their haircuts expensive. Both were wearing logo ridden sweatpants and layers of undershirts, T-shirts, and jackets. One was tall and one had a knit cap on his head. Their faces were flushed, noses bright red.

“You guys know Cheryl Dunkirk?”

They turned and faced me. The tall one ran a hand through his hair. “Are you with the police?”

“No, I'm private, hired by Cheryl's father.” I showed them the paper Paul Brady had signed.

“Cheryl doesn't have a father,” the guy in the knit cap muttered. The tall one gave him a look that said
shut up
.

“Anybody found her yet?” the tall one asked.

“Not yet, no. I thought maybe Cheryl might have played basketball with you guys. If you have a minute, there's a coffee place down the road—”

“Common Grounds,” Knit Cap said, to make it clear exactly whose turf we were on.

“Right. We could have a cappuccino or something, and a cinnamon roll, my treat.”

“We've already talked to the police.”

Knit Cap rolled his eyes at his buddy. “And she already told you she's not a cop. Come on, Ray, let's go. We could both use a cup of coffee. Aren't you cold?”

Ray rolled the basketball into the grass and zipped his jacket.

Ray and Knit Cap, whose name turned out to be Van, wanted to see my license, which I dutifully provided. The tax ID and fifteen-dollar fee for the license had been a good investment. Both had been playing hard on a cold morning, and they ate accordingly. It would have been hard for me to imagine how anyone could eat two cinnamon rolls of monstrous size, but if you have to see it to believe it, I got to believe it twice.

The food and the coffee made them mellow. I made small talk while they ate, giving them in-the-know and harmless details about the current state of the police investigation. It never hurts to give a little before you ask for help. Both of them listened with the sober air of two worried friends. Ray wiped icing off his chin with a napkin, and asked me what I wanted to know.

I ran a finger around the edge of my coffee cup. “How well you knew Cheryl. How often you saw her. Who she was dating, were there problem boyfriends, did she act like something was on her mind.”

Ray looked at Van, who looked at me and settled his elbows on the table.

“Cheryl used to date a guy named Rob, pretty serious, but he didn't have anything to do with this.”

I nodded without agreeing or disagreeing.

“Rob and Cheryl dated a long time. Rob was an ATF intern two years before Cheryl.” Ray stacked his coffee mug on his plate. “He's a good guy. Sometimes he'd play pickup games when he was over, you know, at the apartment. Most of the time, though, when we played it was me, Van, and Cheryl, and a bunch of other people who'd hang out once in a while at Woodland Park. You know where—”

“Yeah, right down the road. Cheryl pretty athletic? She good at sports?”

Van scratched the back of his head and laughed. “
Hell
no, Cheryl sucked at basketball. It's funny, because see, the first time she came out and wanted to shoot baskets I was blown away. I figured, a girl walks up to a couple of guys at the same apartment complex, she's going to be pretty good before she puts herself on the line.”

Ray was smiling. “Cheryl was from a small town—”

“Danville,” Van said.

“Yeah, Danville. And she was used to having a neighborhood gang. She watched us off and on for a while after she moved in, and she decided we were going to be her new gang.”

“She's even worse at softball. Oh man, does she stink. But she doesn't care, you know, she falls on her ass, she just laughs it off. She's kind of a guy's girl. Not a jock or anything like that, but a chick you can hang out with and be easy. And it was cool because then other girls start coming out to play, 'cause Cheryl is there, so it's like girls are welcome, and next thing you know we're all showing up regularly and we got a group.”

I took a sip of my mocha espresso. It was cold, but because it was full of chocolate, still worth drinking. “What do you guys think happened? You got any idea?”

Van went still and tense. Then he shrugged, stretched, and yawned. “Person you ought to ask about that is Robbie.”

“Why don't you shut up and butt out?” Ray said.

“Look, Ray, I'm not saying Robbie did anything. He's a pretty straight-up guy and Cheryl was crazy about him.” Van looked at me. “She really was. They'd been living together for two years, and he broke up with her because he didn't want any attachments. That's why she moved into the apartment. They'd make up—break up. Cheryl was always getting upset, you know, because he didn't spend enough time with her, and stuff. And Robbie, he wants to work for the Feds, and he figures he'll be moving a lot, and I think for a while there he was just figuring himself as the loner with no ties.”

“He was stupid,” Ray said. “And when he figured it out and wanted to get back with Cheryl that last time, she didn't want him back.”

“Nah, she was having too much fun. Lots of guys asking her out. She was pretty attractive.”

“Either of you guys ask her out?”

“Naw, I'm taken,” Van said. “And Raymond here is gay.”

“I am not. You're an ass, you know that?”

“I ought to, you tell me often enough. He's not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

Ray leaned forward. “Cheryl and I were just friends. Any time one would be out of a relationship, the other one of us would be in one. It got to where we were sort of break-up buddies. We'd hang out and listen to all the whining and trash the ex, go to movies and all of that.”

“Why do you think I need to talk to Rob?” I asked.

“You remember you said something about Cheryl having something on her mind? There's something to that,” Van said. “She was acting kind of upset, but kind of excited. She stopped dating, and started working just all the time, and she asked us if we thought she could talk to Rob again, and get his advice. And we told her, sure, go for it. And Robbie starts coming to see her again.”

“Just twice,” Ray says.

“Okay, just twice. But I got no idea what was up with them.”

I wondered that Miranda hadn't mentioned any of this. “What about Cheryl's sister?”

“What, you mean Miranda?” Van said.

“Miranda,” Ray echoed.

“The nutcase.”

“She's just eccentric.”

“Did she hang out with Cheryl a lot?” I asked.

“Even a little bit would be too much,” Van said.

Raymond leaned close. “Miranda had a crush on Van a while back, and she caused him some trouble with his girlfriend. So he's a little down on her. But the thing is, Miranda was jealous of Cheryl. She hated that her dad married Cheryl's mother, she hated moving away from Pittsburgh, and she was basically a pain in the ass.”

I tried not to frown. I wondered if these guys would lie about Miranda. I couldn't think of a good reason. Which didn't mean there wasn't one. Unless Miranda was lying.

Van shrugged. “I can see her viewpoint—Miranda gets uprooted to go live with people she hardly even knows. But after a while, you get over it. And Cheryl was good to Miranda. Tried to introduce her to the kids in Danville, bought her makeup when they were little. Cheryl taught Miranda to drive, and took her to her college orientation. After Cheryl's mom died, nobody was really looking after Miranda. The dad's a self-centered dick—sorry—and a workaholic, and Cheryl never liked the guy.”

“I thought he was paying her school tuition.”

“Cheryl wouldn't take it. In her way, she was just as upset about them getting married as Miranda was. Neither one really gave the mom and dad a chance. It might have worked out sooner or later, except Cheryl's mom got really sick. Some kind of cancer.”

“You know, I've talked to Miranda,” I said.

Van looked at Ray.

“She tells me she looked after Cheryl. Said Cheryl had a habit of studying and being kind of a loner. That the two of them were very close.”

“Total crap,” Van said.

“Why would she lie?” I asked.

Ray shrugged. Neither of them said a word.

“Look, guys. I'm not judging, but the more I know the better chance I'll have of finding Cheryl.”

“How much chance is that?” Ray asked.

Van made a fist. “Slim to none.”

“Dammit, Van—”

“No, he's right,” I said.

“You think she's dead?” Van asked.

“Yeah, I do. Sorry, but that's how I read it.”

“So how come you're looking for her?”

“Because I want to know for sure. And I want to nail the guy who did it.”

Van leaned forward. “Miranda is the social misfit, not Cheryl. Miranda's been moved, and uprooted, and all that sad stuff, and I don't think it makes a bit of difference, I think she'd be Miranda no matter what. She was jealous of Cheryl. Cheryl was smart and pretty and made friends easy. Miranda gets under your skin. She pisses people off. She doesn't mean to, but still. She's no Cheryl.”

“But they did hang out sometimes,” Ray said. “Maybe twice a month sometimes, until about a week or two before Cheryl died.”

I put a picture of Cory Edgers on the tabletop. “How about this guy? You know him?”

Van smirked. “He's the old guy. Playing mentor, but trying to get in Cheryl's pants.”

“Did Cheryl tell you that?”

“No, we told her.”

“How did she react?”

Van looked at Ray, then at me. “It pissed her off. The guy had what you might call an impact. He's a deputy sheriff from somewhere in Kentucky, and Cheryl thinks he's some kind of hero.”

“London, Kentucky,” Ray said. “Cheryl had an internship with the ATF. You know about that?”

“I know about that.”

Van shook his head. “Guy's shady, you know? I mean, you could just tell from stuff Cheryl was saying, and she totally wasn't onto it. She's talking about him all the time, about how he shows her stuff, and introduces her to people, and really thinks she'd be good in law enforcement. She's thinking about using him as a reference.”

Ray rolled his eyes. “Van warned her.”

“But she didn't agree?”

“When I told her he was just trying to get some, her face went all red, and I took it to mean he already had. I made the mistake of asking Cheryl and she bounces a basketball off my head.” Van rubbed his face. “Damn near broke my nose.”

Ray leaned toward me. “Yeah, but later, Cheryl backtracked. She told me her boss at ATF—what do they call him?”

“Special Agent in Charge or something like that,” Van said.

Ray shrugged. “Anyway, the supervisor or whatever took Cheryl aside and warned her to be careful, things could get out of line, and it wouldn't look good. I remember Cheryl was really upset, because she thought she'd screwed up the whole internship and her career was over.”

“She had a crush on the guy,” Van said.

“She did not.”

“Aw, come on, Ray. It was like she thought she had this secret thing about him, but in reality, the whole world was onto it. She was pretty humiliated, if you ask me. I know I would have been.”

“You ought to be used to it by now,” Ray said.

“What about Miranda? What did she think of Edgers and Cheryl?”

“Miranda?” Van blew air between his teeth. “Man, she hated the guy. Told Cheryl he was bad news and to stay away from him. And for once, Miranda called it right.”

I was trying to remember exactly what Miranda had said about Edgers. That he was showing Cheryl the ropes. That Cheryl and Edgers hadn't been having an affair, that she would have known if they were.

“You guys tell all this to the cops?” I asked.

“Uh, some of it. They were more interested in whether or not they could pin it on us. When they decided we weren't good enough perp material, they kind of lost interest.” Van grinned and leaned across the table, brushing the back of my hand with his fingertips. “And nobody was putting together the questions like you are. You're pretty good, you know, a good detective.”

“Uh-uh. Don't hold my hand.”

“No?”

“And don't be hitting on me.”

Raymond laughed and punched his buddy in the shoulder. “Stop messing with her, you're being an ass.” He looked at me with a hint of apology. “He's just playing. He's already got a girlfriend.”